Housekeeping
by julianka
Summary: Changes in the group lead to unlikely bonding- a Spike/Tara/Anya/Dawn friendship story (S/B, X/A, W/T)
1. Default Chapter

Title: Housekeeping  
Rating: R-ish  
Summary: This is an idea I had based on the following spoilers/specs: that Buffy will crush Spike's feelings again (but not really mean it) and that Willow is messing with Tara's memory. The rest of it is guesswork and hope.  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Really. Poor as a church mouse....   
Feedback: Please.  
  
Prologue:  
  
  
Spike was drunk.   
  
*Really* drunk. He hadn't gotten this trashed in several months, Spike reflected hazily. But then- drastic circumstances required drastic amounts of hard liquor. And these were definitely drastic circumstances. Buffy had....  
  
Thinking of Buffy hurt. Hurting equaled alcohol. Spike lifted the bottle in his left hand to his lips and took a long swallow. He tried thinking of Buffy again, and it didn't hurt quite so much. He took a swig from the bottle in his right hand just to be sure, and then cautiously steered his drunken brain back toward his disastrous interaction with the Slayer earlier that evening.   
  
In the few weeks since the questionable miracle of Buffy's return, she and Spike had taken to patrolling together. They would amble along through Sunnydale's cemeteries, idly keeping an eye out for trouble. Spike never said much during these outings, preferring to listen respectfully, *supportively* to whatever the Slayer had to say. Like a bloody lap dog, Spike thought savagely. Trotting at his mistress's heels. Ouch. The thought inspired two more pulls of alcohol.   
  
They had ended up at the Bronze, much to Spike's surprise and delight. Buffy rarely appeared in public with him, and even more rarely ran the risk of doing so somewhere where she might encounter one of her friends. She had even offered to buy him a drink. His little undead heart had soared, thinking that finally, finally she was willing to truly *see* him. To see what he had become for love of her....  
  
Always was a bloody idiot about women, Spike thought viciously, tipping both bottles into his mouth at once. He'd gotten excited like the bleedin' pillock that he always had been, and he'd asked her to dance. Buffy had looked at him like he'd suddenly grown another head and firmly and impolitely declined.   
  
"What do you think this is, a date? God, Spike, you just don't give up, do you?"  
  
With that, she'd turned on one fashionably shod heel and stormed out, leaving him embarrassed, hurt, and stuck paying for her drink. Reeling, he'd done the only sensible thing and headed back to his crypt to drink himself into oblivion.   
  
He'd moved beyond the self-hating part of drunkenness, past the requisite Buffy-hating stage, and was now moving toward his insightful phase. This was the danger point, as those who had seen Spike drunk well knew. This was when he came up with his "ideas"- and then acted on them. And he could feel some deep thinkin' coming up....  
  
*Why* didn't she like him? What did Angel and Riley have that he didn't? Spike frowned, pondering. Okay, a soul apiece and maybe a hundred pounds of extra bulk. But hell, why did she WANT a boyfriend with a soul, anyway? They hadn't done much for her up this point, had they? And what was up with Buffy and the Hulking Male Physique? Towering over Buffy, Angel and Riley looked like giant, confused cattle. Ponces, both of 'em. Overfed, over-souled ponces, Spike thought grumpily. Then he had another drink. But she seemed to like 'em. She would have danced with *them*, and stuck around to drink her damn drink with them, and then gone home with them to....   
  
Spike wisely stopped that train of thought. But then a snippet of his last thought danced back into his brain. Gone home.... Maybe that was it, he thought, maybe it was the home thing. Buffy liked blokes with houses. She just didn't dig the crypt. He wondered why, staring with bleary fondness at his undead bachelor pad. It had everything he needed- a television, a mini-fridge for beer and blood, and an enormous bed. Hell, he'd even gotten a chair. But it wasn't really the sort of place the birds were into, he realized. Harmony had bitched about it. That Riley bloke had lived in that giant fancy frat house, hadn't he? And come to think of it, even Dawn had said something about the difference between his bloody sire's great pretentious mansion and Spike's own cozy living quarters.... Hmm.   
  
Spike sat up, excited now. He was on to something. Maybe if he got himself a house, or a flat, or whatever, he'd have a chance. Surging unsteadily to his feet, he grabbed his duster. It was time to go scare himself up a realtor.   
  
****  
  
The next evening, Spike woke up on the hardwood floor of a small, empty townhouse with a pounding headache, a really nasty taste in his mouth, and a six-month lease.  
  
  
TBC  
  
Next: Buffy decides to apologize, Dawn and Spike go furniture shopping, and tensions rise between the original Scoobies and their significant others....  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. 

Part Two:   
  
Don't panic, mate, Spike told himself, squinting at his unexpected surroundings and running a shaky hand through his peroxide-blonde hair. Things could be worse. According to the neat pile of paperwork that he'd found on the floor next to him when he woke up, he seemed to have locked himself fairly tightly into the legal responsibility of an apartment for the next six months. That wasn't the end of the world, right? He took a closer look at the paperwork- hell, he'd even coughed up the first and last month's rent, he noted sadly, mentally kissing his beer allowance goodbye.   
  
Scowling over the prospect of a future sans beer, Spike decided to take a look about the place. It was a fairly simple floor plan that had probably been built in the 1940s- an L-shaped downstairs that boasted a tiny kitchen, dining room, and a slightly larger main room. An olive green stairwell opened up off the main space, leading up to a bathroom, a tiny hallway, and two small bedrooms. Nothing about the place was particularly fancy, but there were hardwood floors, black-and-white checkered tiles in the kitchen and bathroom, and old-fashioned archways leading from one room to the next.   
  
And quite a few windows.   
  
But windows could be dealt with, he reminded himself, beginning to feel rather cheerful again. They had (thankfully closed) blinds, didn't they? Between the shades, the leafy branches of the old chestnut trees brushing against the windows, and the material he'd tack up wherever he decided to sleep, his chances of getting toasted were really rather slim. The windows would let the night in, he told himself. This... this could work.   
  
But he didn't have any furniture. Well, he had a bed. And his chair and telly. But maybe he could use a bit more? Dust off the old credit card? After all, Spike reminded himself with a sudden, unholy grin, he still had access to Angelus's bank accounts. Back during his ponce of a sire's second stint as a total bastard, the late and unlamented Angelus had found it mildly amusing to ask the wheelchair-bound Spike to run errands for Drusilla and himself, particularly those of an intimate nature. (The memory of Angelus innocently asking him to pick him up a new set of leather knickers could still make Spike queasy.)   
  
And here Spike had thought that those little, cutting slights would never be avenged....   
  
So where did one go to waste other people's money on furniture at- he looked at his watch- six-forty eight on a Tuesday evening? Spike bounded down his newly acquired front steps and headed off in search of a payphone. There was only one person to call, one who seemed to know everything there was to know about wasting money.   
  
A few minutes later, a telephone rang in the Summers household. "Hello?"   
  
"Oi, Nibblet, that you? I need your help."   
  
*****   
  
Buffy was irritated. Spike was late. By nine o'clock, she had been patrolling on her own for well over an hour and there was still no sign of him. She sincerely hoped, she told herself irritably, that he wasn't sulking over her little brush-off the night before. God, he probably was. As if she didn't have enough to deal with already.... Well, she might as well go smooth things over. Taking a sharp left, she headed briskly toward Spike's crypt.   
  
She offered a perfunctory knock and pushed the heavy door open. Marching inside with her unique It's-Time-to-Deal-With-Spike! power stride, she suddenly lost her balance as her eyesight adjusted to the utter darkness inside the crypt. Spike's things were gone. Well, not the hideously ugly chair, but his books and his candles and his bed and his mini-fridge. What... Where....   
  
Buffy sat down hard, suddenly breathless, on the chair. Had Spike left for good? Because of her? Evidence certainly seemed to be pointing that way. Buffy tried not to think about why that made her feel a little lightheaded. It was just... just... one less thing to worry about, she told herself firmly. Definitely for the best.   
  
But she didn't get up out of the chair for a long, long time.   
  
*****   
  
"Cor', pet, you sure I need all this?" Spike eyed the back of the Desoto doubtfully. It was packed to the ceiling with enormous cardboard boxes, which matched the ones rather precariously tied to the roof.   
  
"For, like, the millionth time, *yeah*," Dawn sighed, hopping out of the passenger seat clutching a huge yellow bag with the blue IKEA logo stamped across it.   
  
"But my chair...." Spike whined. He'd set off with the right bloody intentions, he thought sadly- namely, spending the ponce's money- but taking Dawn along had turned from a seeming stroke of blinding genius into a marathon late-night shopping session, with stops at a half-dozen stores in the greater Sunnydale area.   
  
"No," Dawn said firmly. "Not the chair. The chair is, like, an *abomination*. Hellmouth-worthy. We already cleaned out your crypt, and you got to take the TV, remember?" Spike still looked sulky, so Dawn dopted her best lofty-teacher expression. "Now, Spike, you agreed. I helped you shop, but that meant that I got, like, final say. And I'm finally saying a big 'hell, no' to the chair."   
  
"Language," Spike corrected absently, still mourning his chair. "Nibblet..."   
  
"Ah-ah-ah- no whining," Dawn grinned at him. "You've got great stuff now, Spike, thanks to my waaaay fabulous taste. But we need to unload it and you need to take me home before anybody notices I'm gone and, like, blows a gasket."   
  
Together, they yanked the heavy cardboard boxes from the car and dropped them unceremoniously in a huge, untidy pile in the middle of Spike's new living room. Spike's bed, clothes, and few personal items had already been brought over from the crypt, thanks to the combined efforts of a pair of confused vampire fledglings that Spike bullied into slave labor (and then thanked by staking without excessive violence). All that remained was the assembly and arrangement of the several pieces of furniture and decoration that Dawn had happily picked out and Angel had unwittingly paid for. But assembly and arrangement were looking like a hell of a lot of work to Spike....   
  
"Aww, poor Spikey. Don't worry," Dawn grinned up at him, reading the apprehension in his expression perfectly. "I'll come over after school tomorrow and help you set this up." She patted his cheek. "After all, if you get a splinter, who'll help me cheat on my history exams?"   
  
  
TBC 


	3. 

Author's Note:  
  
Thank you all for your responses. When you read this part, remember that in my little world Will and Tara are still together, Giles is gone, and Anya and Xander are still all nervous about their wedding. Eh, but not for long.  
  
  
Part Three:  
  
  
Willow was scrambling to defend herself. "Look, Tara, sweetie, I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear. I'd never hurt you, you know that." She gulped. It wasn't working. "I'm really, really sorry."  
  
Tara's blank expression didn't change; her even tone never wavered. "Willow, you altered my memories, screwed with my mind. I'm- I'm sorry, but I can't stay. Not after this." Without meeting Willow's pleading gaze, she pulled herself slowly to her feet and moved to the bedside drawers, pulling out clothes. She was very proud of herself- she didn't start crying until she heard Willow dart into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it behind her.   
  
***   
  
Across town, Anya and Xander's fight was completely different. Xander kept hoping that sooner or later it would be over and they could move on to the make-up sex, but for once Anya's libido wasn't cooperating.  
  
"But *why* can't I meet them?"  
  
God, her voice was beginning to grate on him. Xander closed his eyes against the brewing headache. "Because, Anya, they're my parents. I can't stand them and I don't want them at my wedding. So there is absolutely no point in introducing you to them, okay? You listening yet?" Tired of the argument, he headed into the bedroom. Maybe the sight of their bed would get her mind working in more... productive directions.   
  
"No."  
  
"What?"  
  
"No, it's not okay." Anya squared her slim shoulders. "Look, Xander, I love you. And you say you love me. As I understand it, part of love means wanting to understand the other person." She moved in front of him, her eyes searching his. "I really want to understand you, Xander, and I think that meeting your family will help me do that. I'd introduce you to my family, but they've been dead for a thousand years. So, please, let me share yours. Please?"  
  
Xander ignored the plea in her eyes. "I said no, Anya," he said firmly. "And I don't plan on discussing it any further." In the time-honored tradition of all males, he left the room just as the argument was getting somewhere. Anya never stayed angry for long, he reasoned as he stomped into the bathroom. She just needed a bit of time to cool off. He really believed this line of reasoning, which is why he was so surprised to discover Anya, and all of her things, long gone when he opened the bathroom door.   
  
***   
  
Tara was still weeping. She'd ordered a cup of tea when she got to the Bronze, but the untouched cup sat cooling in front of her. Her tears were finally slowing down, though, which is what allowed her to notice Anya stumbling toward the bar, lugging an enormous duffle bag and sobbing like a baby. "Anya?" Tara asked hesitantly. "Can I- can I help?" They weren't close, but Anya was (had been?) a fellow Scooby.  
  
Taking one look at Tara's nervous, sympathetic face, Anya dropped her bag and wailed, "Tara, teach me to be a lesbian!"  
  
Two hours later, they had shared their current love troubles, their life stories (Anya gave the abridged version) and two and a half bottles of wine. The bouncers at the Bronze had wisely stayed out of their way, allowing the two young women to wallow in peace. The wallowing was going along swimmingly when practical considerations reared their ugly heads.  
  
"Crap," Tara realized, blinking her tear-filled eyes. "Where am I gonna stay?"  
  
"I was just gonna crash on the floor at the shop. You can crash with me, if you want," Anya offered, blowing her nose on a napkin.  
  
"Thanks," Tara replied, patting her new friend on the hand. "But I really want to stay out of the Scoobies' way for a while, and I don't think sleeping at the shop will help me do that."  
  
"Damn," Anya scowled. "Me, too. I mean, if I actually closed the shop when the stupid sign says I'm supposed to, then keeping them out shouldn't be too hard, but if I'm living there I'll- I'll- I'll never get over Xander!"   
  
"Why, hello, ladies," came an unusually friendly voice from over Tara's shoulder, immediately followed by a pale masculine hand sneaking toward their wine bottle. Tara and Anya jerked red-eyed faces up to stare at him and Spike froze in mid-steal. "What happened? Who's hurt?"  
  
"Our hearts are broken," Anya solemnly informed Spike, her eyes beginning to swim yet again. "I think, anyway. I've never been on this end of a broken heart before."  
  
The two women flung their arms around one another, fresh tears coursing down their cheeks.   
  
Christ Jesus, thought Spike, staring in horror at the two weeping women. He couldn't knick the silly bints' alcohol if they were all in the same miserable boat. He'd have to do the supportive thing instead. Sighing deeply, he dropped into the third chair at the table and arranged himself for a long and painful evening. "Alright, then. Tell us all about it."  
  
Anya and Tara, still sniffing, handed him the nearly full bottle of wine and settled down to share.   
  
***   
  
Three hours later, they were still at it. The cautious bouncers had long since gone home and they were all feeling, if not better, at least considerably less tense.   
  
"Oi, witch," Spike drawled, "Could you toss over the last bit of wine?"  
  
"Sure," Tara handed him the bottle. "So." She tried to focus. "I still didn't figure out where I was gonna stay."   
  
Anya squinted. "Uh, we could-" what was the word? "Rent! Rent a place. But that will take a while. And money."  
  
Spike just stared sadly into the empty bottle. Prob'ly the last bottle he'd see for some time. Then the girls' conversation began to filter through.   
  
And he had a Brilliant Idea.  
  
Sitting up abruptly, Spike waved his hands at the young women across from him. "I have a room to let. Cheap, too."  
  
Anya patted his hand. "That's very sweet, Spike, but if I end up sleeping in the graveyard, I'm certainly not paying you to do it. I'll just steal a crypt for my very own."  
  
"No, no, I have a room. A real room. I got a flat. We could share, divvy it up."  
  
Anya stared. "How much?"  
  
Spike tried to think like a shrewd businessman. How much would he need for beer? Didn't want to price himself out of the market. "Eh, a hundred." Anya's eyes lit up- damn. "Per person." They were still lit up. Double damn.  
  
"We'll take it," the ex-vengeance demon said quickly.  
  
"Uh," Tara said quietly, a little flushed, "I don't have any money. But thanks, both of you. I'll probably just move back into the dorms."  
  
Anya cut her off. "You can work at the shop. You're the most useful of the Scoobies, anyway. I'll pay you, and then you can pay Spike."  
  
Tara's mouth curved up, just a little. "Th-thanks, Anya. I'd like that."  
  
"Great," Spike announced, lurching to his feet. "Then let's go see the place. You lot can pay up front." The liquor store was closed, sadly, but come sunset he'd be back in alcoholic clover! And he'd have roommates, he realized suddenly. What would that be like? Well, the witch and the demon-girl weren't a bad pair, he reasoned. It couldn't be that terrible.  
  
Hey, maybe they'd set up the flat!  
  
  
  
TBC 


	4. 

Author's Note:  
  
Sorry this took so long, and thank you for your responses. I wrote it several weeks ago, but haven't had a chance to post. I hope y'all dig.  
  
Part Four:  
  
Shopping with the Undead  
  
Buffy was, yet again, grumpy. It was ten-thirty, and she'd already snapped at Dawn, rolled her eyes at Willow and Xander's worried, depressed faces, and staked three vampires, but nothing seemed to relieve the tension that hovered just between her shoulder blades. What she really needed was Spike.  
  
Er. To kick Spike's ass.  
  
But Spike was still AWOL. Dawn had mentioned something about seeing him, so she knew he hadn't disappeared for good, but her Spike-radar hadn't so much as blipped for a week. But in the absence of her favorite punching bag, she was forced to rely on an old tension-relief standby: ice cream. She stomped into the Sunnydale grocery store and was heading for the frozen foods section when a flash of black and white-blonde caught her eye. Buffy skidded to a halt, ducking behind a display of fruit roll-ups, and peered around the aisle.  
  
It was Spike. But- what was he doing? He was in… the natural foods aisle! Scowling at the soy milk! Or maybe the rice milk. She watched, wide-eyed, as Spike frowned, shrugged, and tossed both soy and rice milk boxes into his hand cart and rounded the corner, veering left. Quiet as a cat, Buffy followed, trusting that the clash of scents and noises of the supermarket would disguise her presence.  
  
Canned food aisle, no Spike. Paper products aisle, no Spike. Feminine products aisle- Spike?  
  
Had the world gone mad?  
  
Spike was standing, completely unembarrassed, in front of a display of tampons. As Buffy watched, mouth open, he calmly added an aqua-colored box of feminine hygiene products to his basket and headed for the checkout counter. Buffy barely had the presence of mind to scurry out of smelling range.  
  
I am not going over there, Buffy told herself in the relative safety of the pet food aisle. I am not curious. I will be strong.  
  
But her feet started moving, and before she knew it, so did her lips.  
  
"Lactose intolerant, Spike?"  
  
Spike's head jerked up and he froze for a split second. Then he visibly relaxed and continued unloading his basket. Buffy did a quick inventory. The rice and soy milk, the tampons, nail polish remover, some yellow legal pads, mangoes (mangoes?) and granola. "Evening, Slayer." The young man behind the counter started ringing up Spike's purchases. "And can I have a pack of those, mate?" Spike pointed to his cigarette brand of choice.  
  
"You know, all the granola and rice milk in the world won't fix your diseased lungs," Buffy pointed out. Then she frowned. Spike didn't have diseased lungs. Why, then, the granola? Before she could stop herself, the question was out.  
  
"Er." Spike looked vaguely uncomfortable. "It's for a friend."  
  
"A female friend?" Buffy's eyes narrowed.  
  
Spike spluttered with indignation. "What makes you say that?" Wordlessly, Buffy pointed to the aqua-colored box in the young man's hand. "Oh. Yeah. Hmm." He thought about it, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Yeah, this particular friend is female. Quite lovely, too. What's the matter, Slayer? Jealous?"  
  
"Right," Buffy said, as sarcastically as she could manage. "Get over yourself, Spike. I'm just trying to figure out what kind of a demon eats tampons, rice milk, and granola. Oh, and mangoes. Are you gonna tell me, or do I need to beat it out of you?"  
  
Spike smiled his most charming smile at the very nervous checkout guy. "Sorry. We can't always be sure that she takes her meds. What do I owe you?"  
  
"Eighteen-fifty."  
  
Spike fished a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to the guy. Picking up his bag, he turned back to Buffy. Then his eyes widened, and he pointed over Buffy's shoulder. "Demon!"  
  
Buffy spun around, and was confronted with- absolutely nothing. Rolling her eyes, she turned back around to have it out with Spike, and saw that he was long gone.  
  
The checkout guy looked terrified. "Er. Do you want his change?"  
  
****  
  
Buffy slammed the door to the Summers house, Spike's dollar-fifty jangling in her pocket. "I'm home," she called out, and ambled into the kitchen. Willow, Xander, and Dawn were there, looking wary. To be fair, she couldn't blame them. She had been a trifle bitchy lately. But then, with her problems, who wouldn't be? "We've got a problem, guys. We need to find a demon that likes mangoes, rice milk, granola, and tampons. I know it's a random list, but we need this fast-" She broke off, realizing that she had lost most of her audience.  
  
Willow looked sad. "Tara loved granola and rice milk with mangoes."  
  
Xander looked even sadder. "It's Anya's time of the month. She always made me go out and buy her tampons. Said it was a man's duty."  
  
They looked tearfully at the ground. "I just wish I knew where she was," they said in unison.  
  
Dawn was verrrrry quiet.  
  
A silence fell. Then Buffy's eyes got very, very wide.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	5. 

Author's note: Thanks for the reviews. Anybody else feelin' an urge to slap the original Scoobies? As for the final line, I figure Spike for a "Red Dwarf" fan. If you don't, write your own damn fic.  
  
  
  
Part Five:  
  
Buffy, Willow and Xander gaped at one another, doing an excellent impression of landed trout.  
  
"They wouldn't-" began Buffy.  
  
"No, no. Of course not…" responded Willow, her eyes wide.  
  
"Whoa." Xander appeared to be channeling Keanu Reeves.  
  
"Bedtime!" said Dawn brightly, trying to slide toward the hallway. "Goodnight, all!"  
  
"Stop. Right. There." All three had turned to glare at her. They now looked less like suffocating fish and more like the Three Stooges on a bad acid trip.  
  
Dawn gulped. "Yeah, guys?"  
  
"Where. Are. They?"  
  
Dawn pondered her options: play dumb, or play psychotically moody teenager? Hmm. Or better yet… both! "How would I know?" she wailed, dissolving into theatrical tears. "No one tells me anything! You all act like I'm just a stupid little kid! No one listens, no one cares-"  
  
Buffy cut her off. "Knock it off."  
  
Damn. A month ago, Buffy would have fallen for that. Dawn sighed in defeat. "They're sharing an apartment downtown."  
  
*My god,* thought Buffy, Xander, and Willow in unison, *he/she/she has left me to become part of a kinky witch/ex-demon/vampire sex sandwich! * Each felt a tremendous surge of jealousy, although Buffy wrongly attributed hers to indigestion.  
  
"You three were being awful, and they were tired of being second-string Scoobies, so they decided to split the rent on a really cool townhouse and get on with their lives." Dawn assumed her most dignified expression. "I, for one, am proud of them. I just hope you guys can be adult enough to let them go." Feeling that this could not be improved upon as an exit, she held her head high and marched out of the room, leaving three dazed and confused young adults behind her.  
  
The second she was safely out of sight, Dawn tossed her dignity out the window and bolted hell-for-leather for the nearest phone. Spike, Anya, and Tara needed to know that the cat was out of the bag.  
  
****  
  
"I'm home," announced Spike, tossing his keys into the blue pottery bowl Tara had placed on Anya's spindly-legged table. The apartment smelled pleasantly of baking brownies and blood warming on the stove. He could hear music murmuring from the stereo in the girls' room. "Got groceries."  
  
"Great." Tara smiled at him, walking in from the kitchen and handing him a gently steaming mug of Type O. Spike was momentarily reminded of those TV shows in the fifties where the man of the house was always greeted at the door with a cocktail. "We were running low on some essentials."  
  
"Heh. Anya drivin' you up the wall?"  
  
"No, no. But I'm glad you're back. I just didn't realize that ex-demons had such… extreme PMS. She said that if she didn't get nail polish remover by midnight, she was going to try to summon some skin-stripping demon she used to hang out with and try to convince him to pull off her nails with his teeth."  
  
"Got it right here," Spike said, digging in the paper bag for the small pink bottle.  
  
Tara looked relieved. "Thanks. Ooh, and you got mangoes! Why don't you run the remover up to Anya? She's in our room. I'll put away the groceries while I'm waiting for the brownies to finish. I'm hoping chocolate will help…."  
  
"Okay." Spike surrendered the bags and bounded up the narrow stairwell, pausing to tap on the half-open door to Tara and Anya's room. Downstairs, he heard the phone ring.  
  
"I swear to God, Tara, I cannot take this nail polish ONE MORE MINUTE," wailed Anya.  
  
"It's me. Brought you a present." Spike tossed her the remover. Anya caught it, stared at the label for a split second, and then ripped at the plastic seal with her teeth.  
  
"Thanksh, Shpike." She spat the seal over the side of the bed.  
  
Spike took a look at the offending polish as Anya began to hunt for cotton balls. "What's the matter with it?"  
  
Anya glowered at him. "That's what Tara said! Can't you see how wrong it is? It's so… pink! So glossy!" She dumped a tablespoon of remover onto a cotton ball and began to rub.  
  
Spike, remembering Drusilla in similar moods, wisely held his tongue and assumed what he hoped was a supportive expression. Anya was busily scrubbing away at the ring finger of her right hand when Tara, who was looking strangely upset, slipped into the room. She was balancing an enormous plate of brownies, three cups, napkins, and a half-gallon of milk.  
  
A brownie and a half later, Anya was looking much better, but Tara was still tense. After taking a thoughtful look at Anya's once-again-sweet face and Spike's cheerfully chewing one, she decided that it was probably safe to share her news. "Um, Dawnie called. She said that th-the other three, uh, figured out that we're li-living together. They were upset."  
  
Anya and Spike froze in mid-chew.  
  
After a moment, Spike swallowed. "Well… smeg."  
  
  
  
TBC 


End file.
